Congestion
by Kryss LaBryn
Summary: Poor V gets a tickle in his nose. Oh dear...


_Author's Note: Movie-verse V apparently doesn't get sick. However, there is no mention made of any unusually effective immune system in the Graphic Novel, so if you're a stickler for accuracy, assume that this is GN-V. Because the story won't work otherwise._

_I own nothing, not even shares in Dayquil. Or Kleenex. Certainly not any of Alan Moore and David Lloyd's fine creations. Please R&R!_

* * *

_Congestion _

_By Kryss LaBryn_

It started out innocently enough, just a small tickle high in the back of his nose one morning. V ignored it.

By the time he retired for the evening the tickle had grown more persistent, and he was beginning to have difficulty in fighting the urge to scratch at it. Were he alone, it would have been of no import, but since his unexpected houseguest had joined him in the Shadow Gallery, he had taken to wearing his Guy Fawkes mask constantly. Where once he had roamed his home, bare-faced and free to scratch as he wished, wearing the mask only to venture up to the world outside, his 'safe-zone' had now shrunk to his bedroom.

Sometimes it was most inconvenient being an idea.

He supposed that he could always turn his back, lift the mask, and give his poor tickly nose a quick rub, but sensed that it might have destroyed some of his mystique to do so. He ignored it as best he could, and for the most part succeeded, but still found himself disappearing to distant corners of his domain in an attempt to have a good scratch and blow somewhere out of her hearing.

It was with distinct relief that he removed the mask for the night. He looked forward to being able to concentrate properly on his plans in the morning.

Alas, the tickle had other ideas.

In fact, he awoke the next morning to discover that apparently, while he had slept, trusting in the sanctity of his person, the tickle had not, as he had hoped, simply quietly packed up and left, as any polite and uninvited caller would have done. No, this rude and assuming visitor had instead apparently held a party, opening his poor nasal passages to all and sundry. Apparently things had gotten quite naughty. He sensed a good possibility that the tickle, swollen now into a full-blown irritation, was about to reproduce.

"Tart," he muttered, regarding his somewhat bleary eyes in his mirror. He eyed his mask apprehensively. There wasn't much for it. He couldn't _not_ wear it, but he certainly didn't relish another day with a pregnant tickle. He could only hope that he wouldn't sneeze…

V wasn't quite sure if the tickle had been invited in by a simple cold looking for a nice warm place to hang about for a few days, or if, perhaps, he might have some previously-undiscovered sensitivity to some chemical Evey was using about her person. He tried inhaling the scent of her various toiletries, to see if one of them might be the culprit (after carefully locking himself in the bathroom; he did _not_ want her to come across him sniffing her deodorant; an explanation would have been impossible!). Unfortunately, he was already too stuffed up to be able to discern any negative effect.

However, tilting his head to smell various shampoos and soaps did seem to have had one unfortunate side effect: his nose was beginning to drip. Fortunately, Guy had a slightly larger nose than V; he stuffed the tip full of toilet paper and left.

Stinging nettle, that was the thing; it was a good antihistamine, so if his nose cleared up he'd at least know it was an allergy and not a cold. Several cups of tea later, however, he was forced to conclude that he was indeed ill. Perhaps he had some German chamomile about…

"V? Are you all right?"

Evey regarded him with some concern across the kitchen table, fork poised half-way to her mouth.

"I'm fine, thank you, Evey," he forced as much heartiness as he could muster into his voice.

She was still looking at him oddly. "Only, you seem to have a… thing," she said.

"I beg your pardon?" V was honestly confused. He didn't _think_ she had realized that he was sick, but even so, surely she'd recall the word for it…

"Um, on your… nose. There's a… _thing_… coming out of it…"

V felt the mask's nose. To his horror, there did indeed to be something… a bit of the toilet paper had apparently wandered off down a nostril and was even now cockily waving at her. _Son_ of a…

"Ah! Thank you, Evey," he blurted, jumping to his feet in embarrassment, one hand clapped over the offending protuberance. "That, ah, means that it's time for—excuse me." As gracefully as he could, he fled.

_Damn_ it! There was simply no way he was going to be able to wear the mask for any length of time until he got the bloody cold evicted.

Or suppressed…

Drastic times, he decided, called for drastic measures.

In the end, he let his fingers do the walking. Down in the lowest level of his multi-tiered home, door safely locked and barred against concerned intruders, he once again hacked into Fate, Norsefire's supercomputer. If nothing else, a dictatorship was _efficient_…

Soon thereafter, an urgent official request was processed, a special lorry was ordered to a certain warehouse, and within a half an hour the supplies he'd requested were merrily trundling down the road—right into the midst of a traffic jam.

"How terribly inconvenient, all those lights going wonky like that!" V said happily as he wandered down a connecting passage.

He whistled a jaunty tune as he climbed a ladder, then quietly eased aside a manhole cover. "Perfect!" He noted with satisfaction that the lorry was, indeed, centred quite nicely over the manhole, just as the street cameras had indicated. It had taken some work, switching the traffic lights back and forth, allowing one vehicle at a time to creep forward, the drivers cursing and cautious, but, finally, his lorry was in position. It was going to take them quite some time to sort _this_ mess out. He managed to suppress both the urge to start whistling again and a sneeze as he lit a portable cutting torch and went to work. In another minute he was through, and in.

In a matter of moments he shovelled a good year's supply of Dayquil and Kleenex down the hole and into the passage beneath. Carefully, he followed, easing the manhole cover in place again above him, and, once again whistling, started to load a small hand-truck. By the time the lorry reached its destination, he, along with most of its cargo, would be long gone.

…This was _not_ going to happen to him again!

_finis _


End file.
